Odes to a Passing Fancy
by Feste the Fool
Summary: There was a book. It wasn't a powerful book, or a magic book, or a law book, or even a particularly old book. It held poetry and had many different authors—yet it was one of the most valuable objects in all of Narnia's treasure vaults. First poem here.
1. Edmund's Trials

**Disclaimer: If you've read my work long enough, you've figured out by now that I'm not C.S. Lewis. If you haven't, then you should at least know he's dead. If you don't know that, you live probably live under a rock and don't have access to a computer in the first place. **

**Rating: Er...probably a K+, increasing to a T later on for scary sequences. **

**Summary: Very few people on earth knew, but Edmund wrote poetry. So did all of the other monarchs, at one point in time. In fact, Edmund's poetry started a tradition in Narnia that would last a millennium. Read on discover what and how...  
**_

* * *

From the Narnian Annals_

_All four of the Pevenises would be the first to admit that the young kings and queens of Narnia made some terrible, terrible mistakes during the first three years of their reign, a period that many scholars would grow to call either the _Trial-and-Error Years _or the _Age of Misery and Discovery_. No one made more mistakes, or graver ones, than those of King Edmund. In fact, the age did not even begin to end until the Northern Troll's hideous battle with King Edmund while High King Peter and Queen Lucy were attending to affairs in the south. His small infantry unit was victorious, but just barely. While the king himself escaped with only minor cuts and bruises, half the soldiers under his command had been ruthlessly slaughtered due to the trolls' superior numbers and the Just King's inferior battle tactics. _

_At the time of the battle, King Edmund was the same age that his brother had been when he had led a very successful attack on the White Witch's remnant army with half as many men and twice the enemies. The hardly-successful troll skirmish, in comparison to High King Peter's victories and natural battle skills, sent further waves of mistrust and uneasiness into the heart of Narnians, and they began to doubt the abilities of their younger king. What made things worse was that the battle took place in the very late fall, and the king had already begun to sink into his almost annual winter depression. _

_Historians later believed that King Edmund's greatest failure as king became his greatest victory in the months to follow, as an eccentric branch of the army adopted him as their "mascot" and student. Under the strict and top secret training regime of Sybella the centaur, Cotton the rabbit, Tabbarack the bear, and Groul the leopard, King Edmund grew from the "Traitor-King" into the legendary judge that all Narnians now praise. _

Poor Edmund couldn't seem to be able to do _anything_ right. He had never bested Peter in the practice ring, he lost his temper in council meetings, he couldn't stay awake through the speeches of foreign dignitaries, he panicked when asked to take charge of anything, and he was having a nightmare of a time actually making friends among the Narnians. Everything that his siblings could simply fall into, everything they found easy, everything that came as naturally as breathing to them, he simply could not master. What made it all infinitely more painful for the siblings was just how hard he _tried _He was constantly wearing himself down to the point of physical and mental exhaustion while simply _trying_ to do what he was supposed to do, what was expected, and what was right by Narnia.

It was now their third winter. Edmund's patience—and his health—ran thinner and thinner with each cold snap. He tried so very hard to control himself. He loved winter just as much as he loved every other season, and saw no sense in brooding. But with every winter wind that blew in a few snow flakes came the agonizing _whisper _of the Narnians. _This is Edmund's season, the traitor-king. This is the season of the fall of Justice and the coming of Ice and Hatred._ All of Narnia _whispered_ with the breezes and with such a _whisper, whisper_ rattling through his ears, Edmund found it impossible to keep his spirits up and his mind inevitably turned to his treachery. This winter was no different. If anything, it was worse, what with news flying all over about his autumn disaster.

* * *

Lucy, with all these worries plaguing her heart, slipped into the council room where a dozen Archenland dignitaries awaited their very first audience with the famous Kings and Queens of Narnia. She was late, and she walked to her seat at the head of the council as quickly and quietly as she could. Much to her disappointment and further worry, Edmund was even later than she.

Peter waited in tense silence for several more minutes before clearing his throat. "Well," he said, nervously shuffling the papers in front of him. "I suppose we can get started now, gentlemen."

"Aren't you going to wait for the other one?" asked one of the nobles.

Peter smiled. "My brother has been under quite a bit of stress lately, and I cannot say that I would blame him if he didn't come to council today. About the treaty— "

The door flew open again and Edmund, pale and panting, staggered inside. "I'm—sorry—Peter," he said, moving to his seat as gracefully as he could. "I'm afraid—I—got lost." He blushed as he said the words.

"No trouble, Edmund," Peter said heartily, squeezing his shoulder as he sat.

On the other side of the room, the Archenlanders made faces at each other.

"What's the problem?" Peter asked.

"There is no…problem, your Majesty," said one. "It's just…this whole business must be a bit embarrassing for you."

The Pevensies stared. "What do you mean?" the High King asked cautiously.

"Begging your pardon, Majesty, but don't you think you ought to keep your siblings in hand?"

Susan's eyebrows shot up into her bangs as she glanced at the jay perched on her shoulder. Lucy giggled in disbelief at the foreigner's words. Edmund's white face flushed cherry-red and Peter's went stone-hard. "Care to explain your reasons behind that statement?"

"We have heard…stories about all four of you, wondrous tales, and we had believed them all to be true. Now we are not so sure. You truly are Magnificent, High King Peter. However, your Gentle sister, here, has the nerve to bring a _pet bird_ into a council meeting. Of course, was must concur that she, at least, was _on time._ Lady Lucy was late, but she had the decency to come in without a word. Sir Edmund blew in through the doors as if at a hunt and not a diplomatic council. This is really most disconcerting to see."

"That's _Queen _and _King,_" Edmund said softly, his eyes darkening.

"…Excuse me?"

"_Queen_ Lucy, not _Lady _Lucy," he continued. "_King_ Edmund, not _Sir_ Edmund."

"And I'm no pet," the blue jay said, her feathers bristling at the thought. "I'm a member of the Narnian High Council!"

"Primplefeather is right," Edmund went on coldly. "And Lucy was late because she's been assisting the healers in the sick ward all morning. You have no call to accuse her of tardiness."

"And I suppose you were rescuing a talking kitten from a burning tree while you were so late as well?" another man drawled, lips pursed in a tight little line.

"No. I really did get lost," the Just King said with a dangerous smile. "The castle is too huge for even _us_ to know our way around quite yet. But I'd much rather be _lost_ than _downright, priggishly, pin-headedly rude._ If there is any embarrassing behavior going on in this council, it is yours."

At that moment Edmund went even paler, realizing what he had just said to whom, in his sibling's company. He rose to his feet. "Pete, I pray you forgive me my outburst. May I be excused from council?"

"Go on, Ed," he said, rubbing his temples.

The Just King nodded and left, headed straight to his chambers.

Some time later Edmund was seated at his desk, running through some private papers, when a soft knocking came at his door. He sighed. "I don't want to talk right now, Peter," he called. "Go away, and tell the girls not to come in either." The last thing he wanted to see was family.

The knocking stopped for a moment. As he went back to the papers, the door scraped on the floor, easing open just a few inches. Primplefeather the jay flew in and landed on the doorknob. "Sorry, Majesty," she said, smoothing her feathers as she spoke. "Susan sent me to check up on you. Said you wouldn't want to see family right now. She'll have my tailfeathers if I don't actually speak with you. How are you feeling?"

He sighed and fiddled with his quill. "I don't know. More tired than anything. I…I didn't make a _huge _mess, earlier…did I?"

The jay sniffed. "Nothing doing. I say good job on a well-deserved insult. You didn't leave anything Peter couldn't manage." She flew to his desk and landed in front of him. "It was a close call, though. Not your fault. The stuffy nobles had it coming to them. Lucy defended you rather adamantly after you left. They insulted her for it. Peter became spitting angry, but didn't show it. Gentle _Susan_ snapped at them, which shocked them into apologizing _to her,_ not to anyone else. That made _Lucy_ angry and she stomped out with much less grace than you did. _Peter_ lost his temper then and made a very impressive speech on insulting the monarchy and explained for the thousandth time how you three were not _under_ him, even if he was the High King. It was all rather amusing if you could get over being insulted in the beginning. I haven't seen so much blushing since the dryads composed Peter's song. You'll probably be receiving a formal note of apology soon."

Edmund grinned despite himself and ran his hands over his face with a weary sigh. "_I'm_ going to have to apologize to Peter," he said. "By _Aslan_, why do I have to jinx _everything?_"

At that moment a large brown rabbit with white feet hopped into the room. His name was Cotton. He was a close friend of Orieus and Peter, and had been eavesdropping at the door for some time. Edmund was not surprised to see him. "Now, Majesty, don't be so hard on yourself."

"But it's true," he said. "Prim, Cotton, I know better than most what the masses say about me."

"We don't blame you at all for all that's happening," Prim argued. "You are all young. Accidents will happen."

"You don't blame me intentionally," Edmund countered. "But have you noticed that _everyone_ calls Peter, Su, and Lucy by name, or at least _King_ Peter and _Queen _Susan, yet I am still only ever called _Majesty_? No one's used my name since Aslan's last visit. _No one._"

The animals had no answer, exchanging glances with wide eyes. They _hadn't_ noticed, but it was true.

"Did you know that, when they think no one can hear them, people call me Traitor-King? Foreigners, too; people I've never even seen before. They're right." He buried his head in his hands. "I'm thinking of just…giving up. Would that be so hard, or wrong, for any of us?"

"Giving up?" Cotton asked sharply. "Giving up _what?_"

Edmund looked away.

"You just need a chance to forget…_her_, that's all," Primplefeather said. "Winter makes things so difficult for all of us."

"No," said the boy. "It's not winter. I don't mind the snow, and I _don't want_ to forget. I want to remember every single minute of my foolishness and failure. I _need_ to remember. I just want to live past it. How can I when everywhere I go, no one will even give me a chance?"

Cotton studied his paws, thinking hard and deep on what Edmund had just said. Every word of it was true, and he couldn't believe he was just noticing now. No one called the Just King by name. No one ever mentioned his betrayal or gave any sign that they thought he was untrustworthy…but there were no songs dedicated to Edmund. Poets praised Aslan's might, Susan's beauty, Peter's greatness, and Lucy's wonder…but no one sang anything of Edmund the Just.

But there were so many good things about Edmund, things that Cotton was just now realizing. He had the deepest memory and sharpest mind of all four Pevensies. He tried new things constantly. He spent less time in childish escapades. All the monarchs made mistakes, but Edmund was the only one who never made the same one twice. _It's incredible,_ the rabbit thought. _As if Edmund is a separate being from the others. Why does he fade into the background like he does?_

Prim wasn't thinking at all. She was staring at her feet, ashamed to meet the king's eyes. She noticed she was standing on a parchment covered with Edmund's graceful, sweeping, _private_ handwriting, the script he reserved for history volumes and notes to Peter. She scanned a few lines just to have something to do. Surprised to find that those few lines deeply and quickly interested her, she began to read more deeply.

Edmund noticed what she was doing and turned bright red, all the way to the tips of his ears. "That's private!" he said, snatching up the stack of papers with unbelievable speed and shoving them under a stack of books.

"You…wrote that?" Prim asked, cocking her head toward him.

"Yes. What of it?"

"What was it?' Cotton said, rising on his back legs, feeling uncomfortably as if he should have noticed something long before now.

"N-nothing!"

"It was…quite good."

"…It was?"

"_What was it?_"

"An account of the demise of the White Witch," the bluejay said, sounding almost cautious. "And just the small bit I read was incredible. Almost lyrical. You have a way with words, Edmund."

Cotton started, a light of recognition gleaming in his eyes. "Well, we'd better go," he said in a hurry, signaling to the bird as well. "We shouldn't have interrupted you in the first place."

"Yes," said Prim, catching on. "We'll see you later."

"All right, then. Good bye," said the king as they dashed out the door, confused at the abrupt parting.

Cotton kicked the door closed behind them, looking around eagerly.

"You have an idea," Prim said almost accusingly at the rabbit.

He nodded. "I have more than an idea. Quick. Go to Peter. Tell him of his brother's hopelessness. I need to talk to Orieus."

* * *

**This is the "Let's see how many stories I can juggle at once" game. Considering I've already got the first four or five chapters of this done and things are going well over in Graced and I've got a boatload of new Scenes you can expect in the next three or four days, I think I'm doing well. :)**


	2. The Training Ground

**For Disclaimer and Information, see the first chapter.  
**

* * *

Edmund and Peter met again on the practice court. Surprisingly enough, it was the first time they had been able to stop and speak since Edmund left the council chambers. "Peter," he said before his brother had the chance to speak. "I'm sorry about my behavior yesterday. I didn't mean to cause so much trouble."

"I know, Ed, and it's fine," he said soothingly, looking with concern at Edmund's haggard face. He couldn't help but think how unfair it was. His brother was _thirteen,_ but for some reason looked down upon when he behaved as a child. No one had any problems when the other Pevensies remembered their ages. And it looked like Edmund needed to now more than ever. The defeated look in his eye alarmed Peter more than he could say. "They were prats and deserved it, to tell you the truth. Are you all right? Prim said you were still upset."

Edmund turned red. "Is that all she said?"

"Yes. Why?"

Orieus trotted up before another word could be said. For once he was not alone, but in the company of a bear, a leopard, and another centaur. Cotton the rabbit was in his arms. "Many meetings, your Majesties," he said, dipping his head.

"Many meetings, Orieus," Peter answered. "Are we to have an audience today?"

"Not quite, King Peter," the general said. "Cotton brought me some interesting news of King Edmund." Both looked at him, Orieus with an eyebrow raised. Peter looked worried. "We would like to try something different with your training, King Edmund. Something _entirely_ different. We think it might help, but before you start we much have your and King Peter's permission. Would you care to try?"

The kings exchanged glances. "Can you tell us what exactly this new training would entail?" Peter asked.

Orieus smiled, startling them all the more. "I can_not. _These four are the leaders of the 8th and 22nd squadron."

"Isn't that the one that never does anything?" Peter asked, then blushed. "I mean...I didn't mean...They're never here, and..."

"Yes, that's exactly the one," the centaur said with a smile. "There are only seventy-five of us, so it's hardly a squadron to begin with. We have two numbers to distinguish us from the rest of the army."

"They want to take over Edmund's military training," Orieus said. "They are extremely secretive about their peculiar arts. Even I know nothing of it, save that it will help."

"We just need your permission," Cotton said. "It would look terrible if the Just King left in our company and returned wounded when you had not both blessed the training."

"Wounded?" the kings said together.

"Oh, yes. We'll be working you rather harder than Orieus would."

Orieus, Edmund, and Peter snorted. "I doubt that," Edmund said. "In what way will this help me?"

"In every way," the leopard said in a surprisingly delicate female voice. "You will know challenge. You will know success. You will have the world at your fingertips and peace in your heart, the land 'neath your feet and song on your lips. You shall be undefeatable."

Edmund looked downright terrified. He'd been offered all that before.

"There is more than one kind of power," the centaur said softly, almost as if she'd read his mind.

Edmund glanced at Peter, who nodded. "If you want to try," he said, trust shining in his eyes, "then I'm behind you."

"Then…then I suppose I could try."

"Excellent," said Orieus. "You shall have a month with your new tutors, starting today. After that you shall resume practice with Peter and me, with them taking you away every third day."

"Come with us, Majesty," the bear said, putting a huge paw on Edmund's shoulder and steering him toward the small forest next to the courts.

"I guess I'll see you later, Pete," Edmund called back.

"See you," Peter answered, watching Cotton leap out of Orieus' arms and follow the others.

The group waited until the centaur and his now-lonely student were out of earshot before saying another word. "Now then," the Leopard purred. "First thing's first. I am Groul, Sybella is the centaur, Tabbarack is the Bear, and you already know Cotton."

"The first thing we shall do is talk about you, King Edmund," Cotton said.

"These past few years have been very…hard on you," Groul said softly.

"It's my own fault," Edmund said glumly, his eyes growing dark.

"On the contrary," the Rabbit said. "It's _ours._"

"Yours?" Whatever do you mean?"

"We—all of us Narnians—have been foolish," said Tabbarack. He seemed much…different from the other Bears Edmund had met. He had the same bumbling voice, but the words were much more intelligent. "Each and every time you became the subject of some kind of test, every time you have been in position to lead, every time you have to prove yourself to us, we have expected you to be one of five things."

"The first is a coward," Cotton continued. "The second is a spoiled brat. The third is a sneak. The fourth is a masterful judge. The fifth is Peter. Our standards were unfair, and they have caused you to blunder and fail repeatedly. You are not yet a judge, Edmund. Nor are you a brat, a sneak, and certainly no coward. Above _all,_ you are not your brother."

"You have tried to be your brother, and that is what has caused your hardship," Sybella said. "Peter is Magnificent, brave, proud, loving, royal, and ready for anything in a matter of hours. He instantly inspires loyalty and love. He is great and chivalrous. He is a Soldier, and a King."

Now Groul took up the lesson. "You have been trained as a soldier-king, you have been treated as a soldier-king, and we have expected a soldier-king from you. You are not, cannot be, and never will. We were not aware of this until last night. From now on, things will be different."

"But what _am_ I, then, if not a soldier and king?" Edmund said, deeply disappointed and fighting to keep it hidden. Tabbarack, who had been leading the way, stopped abruptly and pulled Edmund in front of him.

They had arrived at an enclosed clearing in the woods, marked similarly to the training ground he was used to with Peter. There was a small pond off to the side of the clearing, and there were fewer weapons just lying around, but otherwise it was very close.

Cotton hopped in front of him, raising on his hind legs and surveying him with a curious look. "You are a Warrior Poet," he said firmly, his chest expanding with pride as he said the words.

"But…I don't write poetry! I hardly _write_ at all, except to clear my head."

"Doesn't matter," said Tabbarack. " 'Poet' is more of a figurative term, anyway. Being a Warrior Poet means that instead of running on instinct and strategy, you run on thought and intense feeling. Where Peter is ready for anything that comes his way in a matter of hours, you must be ready for _any_thing and _any _moment."

"Soldiers run drills until the drill becomes instinct," Groul said. "Warrior Poets hone _the bare instincts _until they are just as deadly. We will sharpen your wits and focus your instincts and turn them into battle tactics to rival the greatest of strategists. This exempts 'Poets from most if not _all_ of the laws of chivalry and honor. Your new code is survival. People will expect a Soldier. You shall surprise them greatly."

"You will rely upon your heart and mind in the thick of things," Sybella told him. "A downside, you could say. Unlike other most other warriors, soldiers, berserkers, or guards, you _cannot_ lose your head in battle or emergency and let your hands take over while your mind is clear. You cannot give way to pure impulse and motion. You must be forever conscious, _painfully_ conscious, of every thought, feeling, and move you make. You must _always_ be aware of your actions and choices, constantly thinking of consequences and possibilities, exploring many options at once, all within a matter of seconds."

Edmund frowned. Everything had sounded good until that.

"Don't worry. We'll cover the mental material later. It's more natural than it sounds." The centaur smiled. "For now we will stay within your physical ranges, checking your strengths and weaknesses and seeing where we need to start. Well, that, and undoing most of what Orieus taught you. You'll learn that each of us have a hand in different aspects of your training. My duty is to help you apply your mind to your hands, to stay focused and remember everything you've learned. I'll also be reteaching you weaponry."

Tabbarack the bear raised onto his hind legs. "I will build your strength, in the ways of a 'Poet instead of a Soldier."

"Believe it or not, I'm a fighting teacher, too," Cotton piped up. "We'll be working on your speed, agility, and unarmed combat."

"And I am a combination of all," Groul said with a graceful nod. "I am your ultimate test, as well as your instructor in negotiation and politics."

"All right, then," Edmund said, hoping he wasn't in over his head. "Where do I start?"

"By helping us gauge where you stand now," said Cotton. "You will start by play-fighting Groul in the practice ring."

"Actually, it's not a fight at all," the leopard said, leading him to the ring. "Your task is to grab my ears. If you can take hold of my ears, you have won our little game. The rules of combat do not apply to a Warrior Poet, remember, so feel free to fight as dirty as you like."

She spoke quite amiably to him, setting his nerves on edge. Edmund was excited despite himself. He had always been tempted to fight dirty against Orieus and Peter, but hadn't dared. He had never fought a female _anything_ before, much less a leopard.

"Above all, you must _keep your head,_" Sybella stressed upon him. "If you lose it, you are lost. Ready to begin?"

Edmund gulped and nodded, and he and Groul stepped onto the court.

The first thing Edmund did was begin to trace a wide circle around the leopard, readying himself for an attack at any given moment. Ed was surprised when Groul did not make a single move, not even following him with her eyes. He waited until he was behind her and to the left, just out of sight, and sprang at the cat.

He landed, painfully, on the hard-packed ground. He grunted and sat up, rubbing his bruised ribcage. Groul was sitting innocently in front of him, swishing her tail absently. "Not quiet enough, not fast enough," she said. Then she began to move around _him._

He sprang to his feet, never turning his back on her. Her sinewy muscles rippled with every powerful step she took. Edmund was suddenly _terrified._ "Well?" she asked, never ending her circle. "Aren't you going to try again?"

The Just King gulped and tensed, then leaped toward her. Quick as lighting she stepped away, leaving him falling to the ground. "Come along, Edmund. Third time's the charm."

He growled and launched himself at her, letting his frustration fuel his attack. Instead of dodging him this time she dove under him, flipping onto her back and lashing out with her back feet. She hit his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending him flying to the other side of the ring. Hit the ground with a groan. Before he had the chance to move again Groul was standing over him, rolling him onto his back and pressing a paw onto his chest, right over his heart. Pressing a little harder, she allowed her claws to shoot out of their sheaths and bury themselves in his skin. He cried out in pain.

"You lost your head, Edmund," she said calmly. "See the dangers now?"

She released him, stepping away and allowing him to stand. He did so, a little shakily, examining he claw marks on his chest. They stung, but were very shallow—what little blood there was already clotting. He eyed his teacher warily, afraid she was going to strike again. Instead she walked to the side of the ring.

"I'm done now," she called. "We'll start you off with Cotton and switch you to Tabbarack in about half and hour."

"All right… what do I have to do with them?"

Both grinned. "Fight me," Tabbarack said, rising to his hind feet and towering over the centaur next to him.

"Catch me," Cotton said, hopping into the ring.

It was going to be a long session.

After an hour they allowed him a sparring session with Sybella, who deemed him "all right for a 'Poet who spent the last three years pretending to be a soldier." As the session drew to a close, Edmund felt ready to crawl into a hole and never come out again. He was dizzy and couldn't walked straight, forcing him to lean on Tabbarack's sturdy shoulder in order to make it back to Orieus and Peter on his own two feet. The two were having a chess/strategy lesson in the shade when the party of 'Poets returned in sight.

When Peter saw his brother staggering out of the woods covered in ugly bruises, sporting a black eye, and wiping the blood off his tunic, he nearly passed out himself.

"Ed!" he called fantically, springing from his chair and sprinting to the five figures.

His brother looked exhausted, but surprisingly happier than Peter had seen him in years. "M'alright, Pete," he slurred. "No need t'fuss. Look!" He lifted his hand to Peter's eyes. Clutched tightly within his fingers like a trophy was a tuft of soft white hair. "I caught Cotton!"

The rabbit chuckled. "Yes, very good, Edmund. You'll have to try harder than just the tip of the tail next time."

He scowled and fell into the High King's arms. "Next time, I'll reach for his ears," he muttered under his breath, confusing Peter all the more.

"He's going to make an excellent 'Poet, Orieus," Groul purred, twitching her tail.

Peter frowned. Edmund looked that horrible because they were teaching him…_poetry?_

"I'm glad to hear it, Groul," the centaur said, eyeing Edmund's condition with raised eyebrows. "You, uh…weren't intending to kill him first, were you?"

"Of course not. What sort of teachers would we be then?"

"Don't worry. I won't let them go too far," Sybella said with a big smile. She struck Peter as being very laid-back for a centaur.

"I'm counting on you. Why don't you get your brother inside, High King, and clean him up a bit?"

"Yes, Orieus," Peter said, half-dragging, half-supporting Edmund into the castle.

* * *

**Thank you Shizuku, lunawannabe, and Eavis for reviewing the first chapter! Hope you enjoy the rest of the story, too. **


	3. Sparring Matches

**For Disclaimer and Information, see the first chapter.  
**

* * *

Edmund and Peter circled each other like vultures. Peter's grip twisted on his sword as they walked, readying himself. Edmund's face bore a look of intense concentration—he could not yet clear his mind as effortlessly as the other 'Poets, and he _did_ want to prove that they'd done well in training him. Sybella and Tabbarack sat on the sidelines, watching with deceptive placidity. Orieus was beside them, arms crossed over his chest, a somber frown on his face.

It had been a month and a week since Edmund had begun a 'Poet's training. Now, for the first time since then, he and Peter were sparring.

Their steps were equally measured—_that _was something that had never happened before. Usually Peter's were so much larger than his brother's. He shifted his grip on the hilt again.

So did Edmund, glancing swiftly down at his feet. He was following his teachers' advice and devising a tactic he hadn't been taught. _Follow his steps,_ he thought to himself. _Mimic his movements. Copy every shift. Watch every motion. When he tenses, tense; when he relaxes, relax. Maybe it will tell me what he'll do first_.

Peter moved his sword up. Edmund followed. His finger twitched instinctively; Edmund twitch his as well. His brother tripped on a small stone in the ring and Edmund added a small hop to his own circling rather than take advantage of the fumble.

Off to the side, Sybella suddenly chuckled. "Good show, Edmund," she muttered. "Excellent, excellent."

"He hasn't done anything yet," Orieus said.

"No, and that's the point," she said back. "Have you spotted it yet, Tabbarack?"

"No, I…ah," he said as Edmund dipped his blade a second after Peter had. "_Interesting._"

"Wait a moment… is he _mirroring_ Peter?"

"You catch on quick."

The voices buzzed like mosquitoes. Edmund turned towards his teachers and smiled as he realized they'd seen what he was doing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter's muscles bunch. A second later, he sprang. Edmund leaped backwards and Peter sliced at open air. The 'Poet jumped forward and the King's sword met his. The air rang with the sound of steel striking steel and Peter came in for another attack.

"Watch your footing, Peter!" Orieus drilled. "Left, right, swing!"

"Edmund!" Sybella barked. "I saw that! I thought we broke that habit!"

The younger king had fallen into Orieus' drill. He shook his head as Peter stepped backward.

"I didn't see any bad habits," Orieus said to the other centaur.

"Neither did I," she answered.

"Look, here it comes!" Tabbarack cried, clapping his paws together.

Edmund and Peter had launched into another series of swift counters and attacks, their blades blurring with motion. Peter managed to knock Edmund's sword away and send him sprawling, leaving him open for any attack.

A month ago, Peter would have won right then. Now, Edmund rose up on his arms and, pivoting with his elbows, spun his legs into Peter's and dropping him as well. Peter shouted in surprise as he fell, dropping his sword and throwing one arm out to catch himself. Edmund calmly grabbed his own sword.

"Hey!" the High King said from the ground, reaching for his lost weapon. "That's cheating!"

"Foul on Edmund," Orieus yelled. "Really, Majesties, that's despicable—"

"No foul," Tabbarack yelled back. "Stand up and keep fighting."

"But he tripped me!" Peter called.

"Orieus, there was no foul," Sybella said, laying on hand on his elbow.

"But—"

"He's not a soldier, remember?" the bear said. "There are no rules.

The centaur frowned. "Stand and continue."

"But Orieus—"

"Stand and continue."

Peter growled and stood, shooting a look at his brother.

"Sorry," Edmund mumbled, eyes smiling. "If you like, we can pretend you slipped instead."

Rather than respond, Peter slashed at his brother's chest. Edmund's eyes widened and he blocked the attack rather clumsily.

"Quit holding back, Edmund," Tabbarack yelled. "No holds barred."

Edmund nodded and fell with Peter's next attack, sliding between his legs and coming up on the other side. When Peter turned, he got a face full of dirt. He swung wildly, blinking his stinging eyes. Edmund blocked each pass carefully before backing up and going back to mirroring. Peter circled left and Edmund turned right. Peter slashed at Edmund's right. Edmund blocked and stabbed at Peter's left.

"Wait a moment. Are you copying me?" Peter asked, exasperated and breathless.

"Are you copying me?" Edmund answered with a weary smirk.

"How babyish."

"How babyish."

"Edmund!" He raised his sword.

"Edmund!" Edmund mimicked the movement.

"Just attack, Peter!" Orieus yelled. "Don't bother to talking!"

With a roar, Peter jumped at the Just King. Edmund, not ready for the fierce attack and startled by the roar, was disarmed with little struggle. He fell to his knees in defeat with Peter's sword at his throat.

"High King Peter wins!" Orieus said as the teachers stepped onto the field. "Very well played, Peter."

"Yes, very well played, Peter," Sybella answered in the same inflection as the other centaur, with a smirk similar to her pupil's.

Orieus shot her a deadly look and Tabbarack laughed. Edmund beamed from the ground. That was as good as highest praise, coming from a 'Poet. To the younger king, it said very clearly _Peter may have won, but you were incredible._

"What are you smiling at?" Peter said with a frown. "You lost again. I _am_ sorry…you just…"

"I'm not going to be beating you any time soon, Pete," the Just King said cheerfully. "I play too nice."

"I wouldn't call that _nice._ What'd you trip me for?"

"I was losing," he answered simply. "It's nothing personal. Just training."

Peter frowned, curiosity instantly in flames. "What do you _do_, anyway?"

"Can't tell. Secret."

The High King pouted and marched out of the training ring.

* * *

_From the Annals_

_Edmund's first great military victory came in the form of the Six-Minute Siege that started and ended about a two months after his secret training had begun. The trolls, led by a vicious general named Blood-Drinker, had come for a second pass at taking Cair Paravel, moving through Owlwood so as to sneak up on their Majesties. A passing gryphon saw the amassing army and quickly sent word to the castle, spoiling the surprise attack. While Peter's forces assembled on the field before Cair Paravel, Edmund took a group of soldiers, both from his 8__th__ and 22__nd__ unit and from Peter's men, and took them into the woods before the trolls could get there. No one is certain what happened in Owlwood that day, for Edmund's band never said a word. Whatever occurred, it cut Blood-Drinker's army by nearly half with only one fatality. With the numbers depleted, Peter had no trouble leading his troops to victory. _

_It would become the first of a long line of good judgments Edmund made._

Bells rang and whistles sounded; the entire Cair was buzzing with terrified activity. The gryphon's report had come not half and hour ago—_the trolls are on the march!—_and everywhere you looked, the army was stirring.

Everywhere except the more private halls, where Peter, Edmund, and Getta the gryphon walked toward Lucy's and Susan's chambers.

"Are they using any familiar paths, Getta?" Peter demanded, dodging a faun who was arming and running at the same time.

"None that I recognized, King Peter," she answered.

"Describe it. Edmund knows the forest."

"They were headed into the forest through the northwestern passage, but I don't think they were going to take it all the way. They were beginning to spread out when I saw them—"

"Getta, you're bleeding," Edmund cried, tapping her broad brown shoulder gingerly.

She winced. "They took some shots at me. I guess that was the only one that hit me. It's just a graze; I'll be fine."

"Susan!" Peter yelled, knocking on her door as they arrived. "Susan, wake up!"

"Just a—ahhhhhhhhh—moment, Pete," she said sleepily from inside. Peter grinned despite his worries. Susan always did have the most unladylike yawns. She opened the door, dressed in a nightgown and robe, and blinked at her brothers. "What's the fuss?"

"The trolls are on the march, Su," Peter said grimly. "I need you up with the archers. I'm sorry—"

"Not a bit," Susan said, almost instantly transforming into the formidable Queen that all of Narnia adored. "Give me two minutes to get dressed." The door closed.

"Peter…" Edmund said, biting his lip.

"What's the matter?"

"The Southern Watch isn't here right now."

Peter didn't answer.

"The 32nd regiment is dealing with a warewolf in the Western Woods."

Still no response.

"You let Galma borrow the 18th, and the Ettinsmoor Division is doing the annual sweep of the Witch's castle."

Peter turned away.

"Pete, where's our army coming from?"

"The reserves," the High King said brusquely. "The palace guard, the Eastern Watch, the Archen District, and the Havela Quarter. Susan has her Archers, and Orieus' unit, and my Riders and Lucy's Fighting Heralds."

"…How many trolls did you say there were, Getta?"

"At least three thousand, Majesty."

"Peter—"

"Don't, Ed," he said sharply as the door opened again. Susan exited her room, stringing her bow and dressed for battle.

"What are our chances?" she asked as they resumed the march to Lucy's rooms.

"Slim to none, at the moment," Edmund said dryly.

"I said _don't,_ Ed."

"Our forces are too scattered, Peter, and you _know_ it!"

"We still have eighteen hundred soldiers."

"They have _three thousand._"

"Boys!" Susan snapped. "Enough! I know trolls are difficult to kill, but the Gentle Archers can still manage at least three hundred. That drops their numbers some."

"Not enough."

"There's still the 8th and 22nd…"

"That'll give us another five hundred, won't it?" Susan asked.

"The 8th and 22nd is one unit, Su," Edmund said wearily as if tired of explaining that particular joke. "And it's only got a hundred and _I'm not qualified to lead them yet, _and my teachers are away."

"_What?" _

"Sybella's with the Ettinsmoor Division, Tabbarack took the week to visit his mother, and Groul's ill. It's not serious, but it's enough."

"There's still Cotton." They had reached Lucy's chambers and Peter knocked on the door as they spoke.

"Cotton won't lead full force without another leader with him. That's not how rabbits work."

"Lucy, wake up! We need you!"

"Yes?" Lucy said. Mr. Tumnus, Mrs. Beaver, and a Boa Constrictor named Impera were seated around a table behind her. She'd apparently been awake and talking to them when her brother knocked.

"Trolls on the march, Lu," Susan said before anyone could say anything. "Better get the infirmary ready."

Lucy went pale. "Mr. Tumnus, you're with me. Mrs. Beaver, better tell your husband to rally the Coast Guard. Impera—"

"Impera, come with me," Edmund said, recognizing him from the 8th and 22nd the last time he'd spoken with them.

"Why?" Peter asked as the snake slipped silently out of the chamber. Lucy headed toward the infirmary and Susan went to find her Archers.

"Because I have an idea," the Just King said as they started walking again. "You're not going to like it, Pete, but…you said so yourself…I know the woods…"

Peter frowned, then paled. "No. Whatever it is, the answer is no."

"I wasn't asking your permission yet," Edmund said crossly. "Give me eighty good men, Peter. Cotton will let me take thirty of the 8th and 22nd if he's one of them. Just fifty out of your troops."

"No."

"I can lead them then, Pete. Straight into the woods. I know what to do. We'll lay traps, snares, anything we can manage. Ambushes, guerilla warfare—the 'Poets will show the rest of them what to do."

"Edmund, that's _suicide!"_ Peter yelled, shocking a group of already-rushing Animals to sprint by the angry monarch. "I can't let you lead that party. Eighty men against three _thousand?" _

"We'd only have to cut the troopssss," Impera said. "It isssss a good plan, Sssssire."

"Half the men don't know the woods like you two do."

"They wouldn't have to," he answered. "All they would have to do isssss what we would ssssay. If there'sssss one thing ssssoldiersssss are good at, it'ssss—"

"—Following orders," Edmund said with a grin, sharing the inside joke.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It's not an insult, I swear. Please."

"It's too dangerous. You'll all be killed instantly."

"The trolls will never see us. Without this chance, we're _through." _

"It does seem like a decent idea, King Peter," Getta said quietly. "If Edmund knows Owlwood half as well as you all seem to think he does…"

"I don't like it."

Edmund threw up his hands and in a hysterical voice said, "You don't have to _like_ it, you just have to _authorize_ it. For Aslan, Brother, _please._"

Peter frowned. "…You _will _be careful, won't you?"

Edmund grinned and hugged him, making the High King's ears turn pink. "What will you give me?"

"Fifty of the Havela Quarter."

"Perfect. Impera, go find Cotton. Tell him I need him and twenty-eight 'Poets, Quills and Staves blazing, to meet me at the edge of the wood. Peter, this is important—keep your men inside the gates until you get my signal."

"And if I don't get your signal?"

"Give me ten minutes _tops _once the trolls breach the wood. If you don't have it by then, go anyway."

"And if I _don't _get your signal?"

"Well, that means you'll probably have to find yourself a new Just King.

* * *

**You know, I think this might actually be my very first cliffhanger. It will _not_ be the last. **

**Thank you very much to the reviewers of the last chapter—Shizuku, Eavis, GoldSilverLionFox, and BabyBeaver. Speaking of which, I haven't seen GoldSilverLionFox around here before. Welcome to My Narnia, home of the Warrior Poets, the Graced of Aslan, and the all-around craziness that isn't entirely canon. I like your username. **


	4. The SixMinute Siege

**For Disclaimer and Information, see the first chapter  
**

* * *

Edmund rallied his make-shift army in the field outside Cair Paravel. He glanced up at the castle while they formed ranks. He could see Peter standing at the ramparts, waving a hand in farewell. The boy gulped and waved back; he didn't want Peter to know, but he was terrified. The fate of his last military exploit hung like a dagger over his head. He _could not_ fail this time.

"They're all yours, King Edmund," Cotton said gently, tapping his foot. "You know what to do."

He nodded and raised his voice to the men. "I know some of you aren't happy being under my command. I thought we'd address that before anything else. I want to make myself perfectly clear; if you do not belong to the 8th and 22nd unit, you do not have to come with me. Should you wish to stay, you may."

He watched as five, six, no seven men murmured to themselves and left the troops. He closed his eyes. _Seventy-three _against three thousand now. "To those of you who have chosen to stay," he called, opening his eyes again, "You temporarily have no officers save for Cotton the Rabbit and myself. You obey our orders and no one else's. We are going into Owlwood. We are going to head off the troll army and fell as many as possible. We will not engage in direct combat. Some of the tactics we will use go directly against the Code of Chivalry. If you are not comfortable with this, then leave now."

More mutterings, and eight more men went back to the wall. Edmund sighed. "For those of you left, you're out of chances to turn back. Cotton and I are going to divide you into two groups now and tell you what we are going to do."

"We're going to have to work fast, Edmund," Cotton said under his breath.

"I know."

"Have you decided what to do yet?"

"A horseshoe. I'll take the east, you take the west. We'll sling our men down through the center of the woods to form the shoe. Basic woodswork, like you drilled me in about three weeks ago, with some of the fancier stuff coming from our 'Poets. Sound good?"

"…I believe so. Better start dividing."

Ten minutes later there were two small patrols heading into the wood. Edmund's patrol, featuring fifteen 'Poets and fifteen soldiers, branched off eastward, cutting through the trees as silently as possible. Cotton's company, fifteen poets and twenty soldiers, veered off to the west, making quite a bit of noise and going a good deal faster.

The woods were quiet save the wild sounds of the western division. Edmund glanced back at his men; the 'Poets were handling themselves quite well, but the soldiers looked terrified. He chuckled and gave a signal. Ten men in the back speed up to join him in the front line. "Majesty," whispered one of the soldiers, a faun Edmund didn't know. "What exactly are they doing over there?"

Edmund chuckled. "Taking the long way."

"But they're so…_loud." _

"Doesn't seem safe, does it?"

The faun shook his head and swallowed hard.

"Don't worry. Impera, take three men and take the central cut-off…plants some thorns."

"Yesssss sssssssir," the snake hissed, nodding to the two badgers and minotaur next to him and disappearing into the trees.

"Hen, go north through the tree branches with five or six more. Find out where the trolls are now, locate the toprunners from the west side, and help them with the surprises upstairs."

"Got it, your Majesty," said Hen. The monkey gestured to a pair of eagles, a squirrel, a tree snake and a jaguar and the six of them leapt into the tree tops, heading west.

All at once, the western division fell silent. "Charge!" Edmund cried, sprinting through the trees toward the west and center. "Spread out, eastward! For Narnia!"

Not quite understanding, the soldiers let out battle cries of their own and crashed through the underbrush. After a few minutes, Edmund called a halt. The instant their shouts died down, the western division started up again, seeming to come from all over.

"This is called a bluff, soldiers," Edmund said to his remaining twenty. "We're confusing the trolls so that they don't know where we're coming from—speaking of which, here comes our first target."

There was a troll coming toward them, a huge, hideous creature with gray-green skin and tusks curling from its bottom lip. The tusks dripped with green saliva—it was poisonous to anything that wasn't a troll. It had two thick tails and ten beady black eyes grouped in the middle of its forehead. It had a club in its hand. Why it bothered with the club, Edmund would never know—between its tails and limbs, it was already decently armed.

More trolls followed it. They had found the army. Edmund took a deep breath. "If you're under three feet tall, come see me now," he said quietly to his troops. Two mice, a chipmunk, and another rabbit came up to him. He knelt down.

"I need you four to take out the first couple of trolls, all right?" he said. "Kill the first one, the third one, and the fifth one you see. Be as quiet and as fast as possible. Drop them without warning. Try not to let anyone see you. Come back to me when you're done. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," they said, vanishing into the underbrush. A moment later, the first troll fell to the ground with a horrible shriek of surprise—a sound cut off almost as soon as it hit the forest floor. The others froze and tensed up, looking around for their attackers. The other two targets fell simultaneously. A call rose up among the survivors and the trolls began pounding their feet and clubs on the grass around them. They were too late. The little Narnians had already returned to their commander. Two more cries followed and Edmund smiled darkly; the western unit had felled their marks further back.

The woods were suddenly silent. The king frowned, trying to think of what his teacher could be planning next. He had no idea—all Poets thought differently.

"Excuse me, King Edmund," said one of the Poet fauns. "I think now would be a good time to drag our troops and snatch a couple trolls off the outskirts."

"Make them cluster?" Edmund said. "Good idea. Gather up a couple of the archers. Don't take out more than four. Make sure you scatter your men so they can't tell where you are."

"Of course," the faun said, scampering off.

There was another scream from the back line of trolls and the ones at the front turned their eyes to the treetops. So _that's _what the western line was doing. "Mice, go again," Edmund said. "Just take the one closest to us."

"Yes, King Edmund," the soldiers said, leaving once more.

A dog began howling on the western side. "Good idea," the King said. "Canines, join your brothers."

Edmund's dog and wolf began to howl as well—the dog was a Poet who, after nodding at Edmund, nudged the wolf and began to run, tearing through the bushes as she cried. A Poet faun behind her screamed "For Narnia!" and the entire western line heard and answered.

Edmund echoed the cry, signaling to his soldiers to spread out again. The sounds bounced off the trees and Edmund say a dryad leap from her tree, wink at him, and charge through the troll's ranks, making a long, chilling trill as she went. He grinned. He'd forgotten about the trees.

The trolls shouted in alarm and began to cluster up, moving together as a single unit. As soon as they were together, Edmund's treetop warriors released their first trap on the left wing of the group. Knives, swords, and loose branches cascaded onto the trolls, crushing several and injuring several others. The wolf and dogs howled again.

"CHARGE!" cried a troll from the center. "DON'T LET THEM TAKE YOU! STRAIGHT THROUGH THE WOODS AND DON'T STOP!" The trolls took off at a dead run. The Narnians cheered at their blind panic and picked them off the edges. The trolls in the front ran straight into Impera, who had stretched himself out as taut as he could manage. They tripped and sprawled into a pit of stakes the badgers of the army had managed to dig so quickly.

Edmund caught up with his ground workers as Impera slithered out of the path, slightly trampled under heavy troll feet. "There's…the first wave gone," he said weakly.

"Easy there, Warrior," Edmund said, patting the snake's head. "You pull back and rest. We can manage without you for a while."

"Edmund!" called one of Peter's fauns. "There are more trolls coming. What do we do?"

Edmund started—not _Majesty,_ not _Sire,_ not _Sir,_ not _Commander,_ not _King Edmund._ The soldier had called him _Edmund._ He grinned broadly and put his arm around the faun's shoulders. "Rinse and repeat, my friend. I'll take the lead this time."

* * *

"Peter! Peter!" Primplefeather cried. "The army has breached the woods!"

Orieus, standing next to Peter, winced. "They were in there for so long. I thought Edmund had succeeded in stopping them."

"He didn't say he'd stop them," Peter said quietly. "He said he'd lower their numbers. How many are there, Prim?"

"Two many to count at a glance. They're still coming out."

"If you were to guess."

"I'd say close to a thousand, maybe twelve or thirteen hundred counting the ones still in the forest."

"Tell Susan to fire one volley. Keep my ranks inside the gates. _Inside,_ Prim. Tell them I'll be right down. Alert me again when _all_ of the trolls are out of the forest."

"Yes, Peter," she said, flying off toward the archers. Orieus frowned.

"I don't think—"

"Please, Orieus, don't say a word." The High King closed his eyes. "He'll be all right. He _has _to be all right."

The centaur sighed. They walked toward the gates. "Twelve or thirteen hundred," he said softly. "This gives us a little more than a chance."

"Yes," Peter said with a small smile. "We can beat them now."

"Peter!" Primplefeather said, flying to him. "They're all out now, shouting something about sacking the castle before the army gets out of the forest."

Peter frowned. "The army? They can't possibly think the entire army is in Owlwood."

"It doesn't matter. They've got a battering ram. They're charging the gates. The castle's besieged!"

"We need to attack," Orieus said.

"No! We have to wait for Edmund's signal!"

The three fell silent as the High King whistled for a Horse. His usual mount, a rash young stallion named Jasil trotted up, nostrils flaring and swishing his tail. "You called, Highness?" he said sarcastically.

Peter rolled his eyes and mounted. "Aslan forbid you should ever retire for studwork, Jas," he said. "Imagine your _children's_ attitude issues."

"Don't worry, Pete. You're stuck with me for a long time." He reared, nearly unseating the monarch, and galloped up to the army's head.

Peter held up his hand for silence; if the trolls thought they were still in Owlwood, he could use it to his advantage when the signal did come. Orieus caught up to him, jumping slightly at the sound of wood striking wood behind them. "Steady," Peter called out. "Prim, how long has it been since they started this?"

"Two minutes," the Jay said, landing on his shoulder with a worried shiver. "Susan's been firing at them the whole while, but I don't know how many the archers have dropped."

"We'll see when we open the gates."

"Three minutes…"

"Steady men! Come on, Edmund, what are you waiting for?"

"…Four minutes…"

"…Peter, it's possible he can't send the signal—"

"He'll send it, Orieus! Don't doubt him!"

"…Five minutes…"

"I don't doubt him. He had eighty men and they had three thousand. There's a chance that he's—"

"Orieus!"

"…six minutes…"

The cry of an eagle rent the air. The horrible sound of the battering ram stopped momentarily as all eyes were drawn to the skies. A trail of flame stretched from Owlwood to the center of Cair Paravel—an eagle carrying a torch in its talons. The eagle dropped fifty feet out of the sky before swooping up into a round climb. It formed a quickly-disappearing circle with a cross in the center before dropping the torch and diving to land on the ground.

"OPEN THE GATES!" Peter yelled. "CHARGE!"

The army roared and leapt forward as the gates opened, pouring out of this city and striking the trolls before they had the chance to figure out what had happened. Susan's archers continued to rain arrows on the ones in the back of the mass while Peter's army charged the front. The battle lasted about an hour, after which the remaining trolls turned and ran, taking particular care not to run back toward the woods. Peter gave his troops the signal to fall back into the castle.

"Woah, Jas," he said as Jasil turned around as well. "We're going into the woods to find Edmund's men."

"Aww, but I hate the woods," the roan said with a sigh. "You can't gallop through trees."

"We don't need to be galloping. We're _searching." _

"And you think you can get away without taking someone with you?" Came Orieus' steady voice from behind.

Peter flinched and turned around. "Hello, Orieus," he said. "Didn't notice you there.

"Obviously." He cocked his head as Peter sighed and urged his Horse into turning toward the castle. "Now did I say anything about going back?"

He perked up. Prim landed on his shoulder once again. "I explained everything to Susan. She's organizing the men while you're…occupied…and I'm coming with you."

"Come on, then. I'm tired of standing around," Jasil said, shaking his head. "Let's go find ourselves a King." They galloped toward the distant trees.

* * *

**Thank you to...a _whole_ lot of people. I didn't realize Odes would be this popular! Eavis, BabyBeaver, Shizuku, Alambil, Bartholo, GoldSilverLionFox, Amakurikara (a name I don't recognize, whoo hoo!), kissoftheblackrose, tag.0 (another newbie, welcome!), jjjc, grahamcracker, That Ella Loves (Another unfamiliar name; glad you're enjoying the story!), bethyhope (Hi and welcome!), and huffle-bibin! Thanks for reviewing. Hope you like this chapter, too! **


	5. Ode to a Passing Fancy

**For Disclaimer and Information, see the first chapter. **

**Also, this chapter is longer than usual, by a thousand words. You're welcome. :)  
**

* * *

Primplefeather reached the trees before any of the others, searching from the skies. Peter and Orieus moved as quickly as they could from the ground, looking for any signs of Edmund's troops. "Edmund!" Peter called.

"Oh, Majesty?" Jasil echoed, the concern in Peter's voice making him shiver.

"Edmund?" Orieus shouted. "Where are you?"

"Edmu—oomph!" Something heavy dropped from the treetops and into Peter's stomach, knocking him out of the saddle and onto the forest floor. Jasil screamed and reared. He would have trampled the figure now pinning the High King to the ground had a faun not popped out of a bush and caught his bridle, quieting him with a soft hand and a word in his ear. There was a monkey on Orieus' back, restraining his hands.

Peter struggled to free himself from his attacker, but every effort was blocked. "Stop it!" hissed a familiar voice above him, a spark entering those deep brown eyes. "Stop fighting me and be quiet! Do you _want_ to become troll food?"

"_Edmund!"_ Peter exclaimed quietly as his brother stood. Edmund rolled his eyes and held out his hand. While he pulled his brother to his feet, the Just King turned away and whistled twice. The faun whistled in response. Another whistle answered from further off. "Edmund, I'm so glad to see you. I was afraid you were—_Edmund, you're bleeding!_"

"What, this?" Edmund asked, bringing his knuckles up to the ugly gash on his forehead. "Pfft. My own fault."

"He fell out of a tree," Hen said with a chuckle, releasing the centaur and scampering up a branch. "Would've been quite hilarious if the troll behind him hadn't seen."

"Who do I need to thank?" Peter asked.

"One of yours…Cheetah named Ravi." Another whistle—three whining notes similar to a siren—before Edmund could say anymore. "Uh oh," he said, guesturing to the soldiers around him. They disappeared into their hiding places. "Uh…Orieus, clear out. Pete, with me. Jasil…what do you know about herding?"

"Why do I not like the sound of that?" the roan said, rolling his eyes.

"Sorry, it's just…an idea just came to me. If you could kind of drive the trolls towards us..."

A Badger suddenly stuck his head from a hole in the ground, making Peter jump. "We can have another thorn patch ready in fifteen minutes, Edmund, if that's what you're planning."

"Perfect," Edmund said, resting one hand briefly on the animal's head. He nodded and vanished again. "If we can just keep them running…Dryads?" he asked timidly. Three of them appeared in front of them. "Can you help Jasil out and show him what to do?"

The dryads nodded and moved the roan away just as the trees started shaking near the group. "Edmund, what exactly is going on?" Peter asked, exasperated and confused.

"Don't talk, Pete. Climb," he answered, dashing up the nearest tree. The High King shook his head and joined his brother as fast as he could. The top of the tree revealed an interesting sight—Hen was there with them, along with a squirrel, a chipmunk, a jaguar, and Primplefeather.

"Why hello, Prim," Edmund whispered. "What brings you here?"

"I came with Peter and Orieus," she answered. "Your little air squad stopped me and sent me here. Said something about driving another batch to the edge?"

"Yes, that would be them coming in just below," Edmund said, pointing through the branches.

Peter looked down to see five trolls moving warily through the trees. "I thought we got them all," he said, shocked.

"Well of course not," Hen said, tail twitching. "There were thousands of them. We killed about a thousand and scared a few hundred into deserting, but you didn't honestly expect all of the trolls to come out of the woods at the same time, did you?"

"We all move at different speeds," Edmund said. "We're only here for backup at the moment, Treetop Brigade. I've got a Horse and a few Dryads hopefully running them into another thorn patch, so you can relax for now."

"How many are left?" Peter asked frantically. The kind of warfare he was seeing now was not the kind he was used to, and it both unnerved and confused him. He felt blind.

"About three dozen, last time we could count," Edmund said, reaching out from his firm hold on the branch and touching his brother's shoulder reassuringly.

"And what are your stats?"

"Um…we've got about twenty men wounded. Seven are in critical condition and a handful or two more just banged up like me."

"And fatalities?"

"Can't talk now, Pete," Edmund said as the trolls separated. "Prim, fly south and tell the hounds to howl. Brigade, move west. This isn't supposed to happen."

The dryads blew like wind through the clearing, making the trolls visibly shake with fear. "The ghosts are back!" one shouted, turning and running the other way. There was the wild whinny of a horse in fury and Jasil came practically flying towards the straggler. The dim forest light made him look positively ghostly. The troll backed quickly toward the group.

"Haven't you learned anything?" another troll asked, shaking the scared one by the collar. "They _want_ us to group up. Go the other way!"

"But the horse—"

"Just smash it and keep going!" They scattered warily, glancing about. All at once, a howl rose up from the north. Edmund grinned at Peter; Primplefeather had gotten the message across. The trolls' grips tightened on their clubs.

"Uh…Bones?" one of the trolls asked the one in charge, trying not to shake.

"Keep moving," he snapped.

Edmund nodded to Hen. The monkey and squirrel dropped from the tree branches onto the troll directly beneath them, slew it, and shot back up again. The others screamed and started pounding the branches above them. The Just King snatched the chipmunk out of the way just in time—but they were coming closer.

There was a rustling sound. "Hey—hey you! Uglies!" the faun yelled. "Over here! Fight me if you dare!"

The trolls roared and charged the soldier. The Treetop Brigade peeked out and watched as their enemies unthinkingly clustered again to chase the poor faun. He led them in circles for as long as he could, then headed straight for where the badgers had been. He saw the ditch in time and took a flying leap over it. The trolls, meanwhile, fell and were impaled on the stakes of another "thorn patch."

Edmund crowed in triumph, and the others joined him, jumping out of their trees. Another shout echoed in from the west, and Jasil came running up, out of breath but fine. "That was _incredible,_" he gasped, shaking his mane and prancing playfully. "Did you hear those canines? Nearly gave _me_ a heart attack!"

"Good work, Jasil," Edmund said, rubbing his nose. "If this had been at the beginning of the battle instead of the end, you probably could have driven them there all on your own."

"Thanks."

"Edmund," the faun said, leaping over the pit once again. "The Badgers are with Cotton's troops. They saw Blood-Drinker cutting through the center. We think he's headed for home."

"Blood-Drinker wasn't leading the troops at the castle?" Peter asked, surprised.

"That would have been difficult for him," said the Jaguar, "seeing that the first thing the western division did was cut him from the rest of the army and keep him running in circles."

"He broke out of the circle and moved south about the same time the rest of the trolls broke through the trees," Edmund explained. "We lost him for a while, but it seems we've found him again."

"Western division got another six," the faun added. "The Badgers went to tell Cotton about your five."

"Good, good," the king said, leaning against a tree. "Good all around. I'm proud of everyone. How's the ground unit holding up?"

"Don't know. Did you send that bird after them?"

"That bird has arrived!" Primplefeather sang from overhead, landing on Peter's shoulder. "Ground unit got three more and are currently tracking Blood-Drinker. They told me to tell you that the eastern and western divisions are mixing to the north to form another horseshoe under the control of Impera, who is still resting as you ordered."

"Resting?" Peter asked.

"He was rather badly trampled near the beginning," Edmund said. "Speaking of which, there's only one fatality. A poor soldier named Tantallon. He tripped on a pebble and a troll ripped him to pieces before he could get up again. We've already buried him. Didn't think his family would want what was left of his body—that sight is far too gruesome to serve as a final memory."

Peter blinked several times, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. Did you say you've only lost _one_ soldier?"

"Yes."

"You started with eighty men and you've only lost one."

"No."

"No?"

"We started with sixty-five men. Fifteen of them went back to the castle before we actually started."

"Sixty…sixty-five."

"Yes. Are you having troubles hearing or something?"

An eagle flew out of a bush before the High King could answer. "Ground unit found Blood-Drinker's trail, Edmund. Requesting orders."

"Um…" He did some quick thinking. "Keep following him. If he leaves the woods, come back and we'll send the Ettinsmoor Guard to make sure he goes home without doing any more damage. If he circles 'round again, kill him."

"Yes, sir," the eagle said, springing into the sky again.

"…Ed?"

"Yeah, Pete?"

"I don't think you'll have to worry about the murmurings anymore."

"…Yeah? You really think so?"

Peter swallowed. "I really do."

* * *

"…_I must thank…" _Edmund scribbled down the words and went back to tapping on his knee, staring at the big stone wall in front of him. Peter watched, unnoticed from the doorway. After a few moments, his brother raised his quill. After just a few short lines, he put it down again and stared at the paper.

Peter walked forward. "Hey."

Edmund jumped and smothered a cry, standing and hiding the paper behind his back. "_By the Lion,_ Pete, you scared me."

"You're just lucky I didn't jump you," he countered, grinning. "What's that you're working on?"

"Hmmm? I'm not working on anything."

"Then what's that you're hiding so cleverly."

"It's nothing."

"Nothing?"

"_Nothing,_ Pete, nothing!"

"So you wouldn't mind if I—" He tackled the younger boy without saying another word, knocking him to the floor and running his fingers lightly along his ribs."

Edmund squawked foolishly for a few seconds, then broke down and giggled. "Pete—Peter—Stop, that _tickles!" _

"That's the point, brother mine. Let me see it."

"No, Peter, I—" He tried to keep a straight face and ended up curling around the paper, laughing hysterically, face turning red. "Stop, stop, _stop!" _

"Not until I can—_aha!" _he snatched the paper from Edmund's clenched fist, almost tearing it, and dashed away before his brother could recover. He had intended to read the words on the page as quickly as possible, but soon found himself drowning in the poetry.

It was a passing fancy  
That called me to my pen.  
It was a thoughtless motif  
Of a dream of what had been.

I thought that I could fight it,  
This siren-song of old.  
I tried so to deny it  
Though it had me in its hold

At last I gave in to the whim  
and let it free my soul;  
I have never happier been  
Than lost in its control.

The poem was swiped from his hand before he could finish and a somber, red-faced Edmund was smoothing out the wrinkles and walking away. "Wait, Edmund!" Peter cried, running forward and catching his brother's arm. "Edmund, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's all _right,_" Edmund said. "I'm not…I'm not angry. I think."

"It's…it's good."

"Thanks. It's just a doodle, really. It doesn't mean anything."

"No... I think it means quite a lot. Doesn't it?"

Edmund sighed and glanced back down at the poem in his hands. "It's..." he spun to face his brother. "I'm called a Warrior Poet, am I not?"

"…Yes…"

"And I wouldn't have if I hadn't…if I hadn't written that…thing…"

"What thing?"

"It was…nothing. I just…sat down one day and…started writing. I don't know why or how it happened, I just…did it. And it turned into a report—er…more of a story or a ballad—about the battle that made us kings. It was a passing fancy, but it changed my life." Edmund shrugged helplessly, not quite sure where the conversation was going.

"All right," the Magnificent King said, crossing his arms. "So you owe everything to this…passing fancy."

"Yes. But…After I became a 'Poet, I…I don't know. Most 'Poets don't really write poetry. Sometimes they do. And I wondered…what if I tried? Would that passing fancy come back?"

"Did it?"

"…Yes. But…stronger…" Edmund glanced down at the poem again. "It was just my way of saying thank you."

Peter stepped forward and pulled his brother into his arms, briefly, before releasing him again. "I know what you mean. Sometimes things just happen on a whim that we never really understand, right?"

"Right," Edmund said with a shaky nod. He hesitated a moment, then jerked away from Peter, grabbed his quill, refilled it, and scrawled something across the top of the page. Then he picked up the ink bottle and shoved the paper into Peter's hands. "Keep it, Pete. It's yours."

"What? But Edmund—"

"No buts. You saw it first. I _want _you to have it." He strode out of the room before Peter could say another word.

Peter glanced down at the paper and sighed before finishing off the last lines.

This passing fancy I must thank  
For everything I am  
It shaped me and it formed me  
Slowly to a better man.

The last words on the page were his signature. At the top of the poem, ink still wet and shining, Edmund had written _Ode to a Passing Fancy_.

* * *

"What, aren't you going to take part in the festivities?"

Peter jumped as Edmund's teasing voice cut into his thoughts. He glanced up, smiling as Susan laughed aloud at his flightiness. "Hello Ed, Su," he said happily. "You surprised me."

Susan laughed again. "That much is clear. The question is: where are you?"

"What do you mean?"

Her arm was around Edmund's shoulders, his around her waist, and it was clear from their breathlessness and flushed faces that they had just finished a dance. "Well clearly you're a million miles away from the party, since you're sitting on the green and staring into the middle distance," she said with a gentle sigh, slipping out of Edmund's half-embrace and falling to her knees in front of him. "That could mean several things. It could mean you would _not _like to welcome in the spring with the rest of us. It could mean you're brooding over something. Or it _could _mean that you want to look grave and pensive as to put out that gaggle of giggling girls all throwing their eyes and hearts at you from across the bonfire?"

"_What?_ _Where?_" He asked, throwing his head up and looking around fearfully. Edmund laughed that time.

"Well, if he wasn't trying to avoid them before, he definitely will be now, Su," he called, dropping onto the grass next to her.

It wasn't but thirty seconds before Lucy whirled her way to their sides, blowing a kiss to the faun who released her hand. "Is this a family conference or are you just trying to get Peter to join the dance?" she asked, eyes sparkling with mirth.

"That is just what we were discussing," Edmund told her conversationally, leaning an elbow on the soft, new grass.

"Actually, I…" Peter reached behind his back and pulled out three packages. "I was just wondering when the best moment was to give you these."

Lucy squealed as hers was pressed into her hands. Susan grinned. "But you didn't have to, Pete," she said. "It's not a gift giving holiday. We don't have anything for you."

"It's just a thank you," he said. "For standing by me these…what will this be, now, our fourth year? It's a quarterly gift…type of…thing. I just wanted to, okay? Open up."

Susan was, despite her protests, already digging into the paper. Lucy laughed at her sister as she fumbled with her own package. "Oh, Peter," the older girl breathed, taking the necklace from its box. "It's _beautiful._" And it was, in a simple way. It had a silver chain, and the simple pendant was a silver filigree of the Pevensie Crest, with Susan's own mark added.

"I love you, Peter," Lucy said, throwing her arms around his neck. Edmund grinned and leaned over them to see Lucy's gift—an exquisitely embroidered warm weather cloak made of the softest cloth in a bright blue that matched her eyes.

"What's yours, Ed?" Susan asked. "Really, Peter, this was so thoughtful."

"A book," Edmund said, holding it up. He rifled through the pages to show them. "It appears to be entirely blank, however."

"Not…entirely…" Peter said softly. "Try the first page."

He opened the leather cover. The first page was his poem—still crinkled from their play-fighting that day, the title slightly smeared from not being blotted. Edmund hissed and his hands shook a little. "_Peter—_you had it bound?"

"For whenever your next passing fancy takes you," he said. "I want you to have room for plenty more. It's a good idea, after all—to just sit down and sketch a poem whenever the fit takes you. Whenever you feel something, you know, that you can't express any other way. It's safer than doing it on the practice courts, that's for sure. Will you use it?"

Edmund closed the book, stroking the leather spine. Then he smiled. "I…have a better idea." He stood and marched back into the castle, his siblings chasing after him.

* * *

_The plaque on the podium in the Cair Paravel library:_

_No one will ever really know why I started this book. The first Ode was just one of those things that just happens. Just like the rest of the book—all of these Odes were inspired by a simple whim, or an overwhelming feeling. Open it, reader, and if you are so inclined, we welcome you to lift your pen to its pages and leave your mark among so many others._

—_Edmund Pevensie: Warrior, Judge, King, Servant, Leader, Brother, Poet.

* * *

_

"Ed? You've got to help me out, here."

Seventeen-year-old Edmund Pevensie, king-turned-schoolboy, looked up from his homework and across the table. Samuel Peterson didn't appear to need any help at first glance. He was clenching his pencil rather tightly, yes, and his eyes did appear rather glazed. Only Edmund could see the green and gold glow flying sporadically off the younger boy.

"What is it, Sam?" he asked, rising quickly and crossing the distance between them.

"These _words,_" Sam said through clenched teeth. "They keep running through my head, over and over. I'm going _crazy._"

"Stay calm," he said, taking the pencil away before it snapped. "What is it you're thinking?"

Sam took a deep breath—it was very hard for the young Grace to stay calm when this happened—and turned toward the Just King. " '_It was a passing fancy that drove me to my pen,_'" he recited. Edmund jumped; he had not heard those words since he'd left Narnia. " '_It was a thoughtless motif of a dream of what had been. I thought that I could fight it, this siren song of old; I tried so to deny it though it had me it its hold.'"_

He went through the entire poem once, and Edmund let the words wash over him before grabbing a blank piece of notebook paper. "Say it again, slower this time. I can't _believe_ I'd forgotten it."

Sam, much more under control now, repeated the words and relaxed. "There. The…feeling is gone. What did I say?"

Edmund showed him the paper, a frown creeping over his face. Sam raised his eyebrows. "I spouted _poetry?_ Really?"

"Well, you didn't quite understand that it was poetry," he answered. "This was my first Ode, the one that started the whole book. And...Sam, I'd _forgotten_ it. I still can't remember why I wrote it in the first place."

"You wrote this?" Sam asked, reading it over. "Not bad, really. Try reading it through again."

Edmund looked over the poem and jumped up halfway through it. "The Six-Minute Siege!" he cried, striking himself in the forehead. " 'Poet Lessons! I wrote this a week after the Six-Minute Siege, because I was a Warrior Poet."

"All right…What's the Six-Minute Siege?"

"I'll tell you some other time…I'd forgotten that, too…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I need to write to Peter and Lucy."

* * *

**_Phew._ Thanks to last chapter's reviewers: jjjc, huffle-bibin, LucyofNarnia, Eavis, Flavio S. Weasley, BabyBeaver, Amakurikara, and GoldSilverLionFox. Thank you very much! Also, newbie kutlassgirl90, a gracious welcome! **

**Now you're sort of caught up to what the story will actually be about, namely, memories and how to preserve them. I hope no one minds that I'm using Sam even though you and he haven't been properly introduced... *pokes _Graced_ muse angrily* but since that last bit takes place Edmund's final year, Peter and Roger have already graduated. Eep, age!  
**


	6. Author's Note

Dear Readers,

The reason I have not been active recently is that I have been working on Graced of Aslan. Graced takes a lot out of me for some reason. I think it's because it focuses purely on emotional struggles, and there's not as much action or adventure. Anyway, I thought you'd like to hear from me in preparation of another dry week. I leave for Church Camp this afternoon and will not return until next Monday. I'm sure I'll have a great time, and I'll probably be working on Graced and Odes in my spare time...mostly because if I ever stopped writing for anything, I'm pretty sure I'd stop breathing, too. I haven't tried it yet. It seems a little dangerous for the casual experiment.

Thank you for your time and patience, and I adore you all.

Love,  
Feste


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